


Beware, Mr Burglar

by Pluppelina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Bondage, Kidnapping, M/M, Pet Play, Very Minor Character Death, implied brainwashing, implied rape, knife fight, non-con pet play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is a rich home-owner with a twisted sense of humour and a kennel full of not-quite dogs. Sebastian is the burglar who picked the wrong house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd as I'm still without a beta. If you're interested, please let me know in a comment.

Sebastian would be the first to admit that there’s little pride to be found in burglary, but if there’s any at all, it’s right here in this part of town. The elaborate security measures of the big houses bring on a kind of glory that’s only rivaled by the riches Sebastian has been assured resides within them, and as greedy for the jewelry, home electronics and brand name shoes as he is, he’s even more greedy for the challenge.

Taking his work seriously, he’s been watching the chosen house for a fortnight now. While it doesn’t normally bustle with life - there is, as far as he can tell, only one man living alone there - it’s seemed abandoned for the past three days. There’s no car in the driveway. The lights come on at precisely eight every night in three of the windows, as though by clockwork, and go out again precisely three hours later. He isn’t going to get a much surer sign than that. 

That’s how he finds himself standing outside the Moriarty residence at two in the morning. On any normal street, it’s easier to break in during the day, to be just another man passing through. He’s good enough at what he does that it takes him little enough time, but here, he knows that he’d stick out as a sore thumb. He’s simply too big to blend, tall with broad shoulders and a tan that have some mistake him for a foreigner - all things, he knows, which would have been certain to land him in trouble if he’d shown his face in daylight.

So, the night it is, and this house in particular because it would seem like the owner has a sense of humour. Even in the gloom, he can see the sign that’s the reason he chose it to begin with. It’s a novelty sign, unlike the ones on the other house gates, that sport the names of high-end security firms, that brag of security cameras and automatic calls made at the slightest infractions. There’re those on this gate too, of course, but they’re unremarkable by comparison. It has a short message on it, so American in nature that Sebastian wouldn’t be surprised if the house belongs to a Texan diplomat.

_Mr Burglar, beware. If the dogs leave you alive - your ass is MINE._

Whoever put up the sign was kind enough to do it at just the right height for Sebastian to plant one heavy boot on it as he hoists his way up on top of the gate. The spikes adorning the top make for a good grip, and he has no problem swinging over them to land on the gravel on the other side. Without the sign, the move would’ve been impossible, and as he lands, there’s nothing to show for the dogs mentioned. Just as he thought - the place is empty.

He knows where the spotlights are, and where their motion sensors have been directed. There’s a blind spot, along the hedge off on one side, and Sebastian is silently grateful for rich people and their vain need for privacy as he creeps alongside it, careful to keep to the shadows, just in case. It’s unlikely that anyone’s up to see him at this hour, but if there is someone, he doesn’t want to make a blunder and attract their attention.

His plan works as a charm right up until he reaches the door. The most tricky part is still ahead of him, but he feels confident that he’ll make it. It really is considerate of the homeowners of London to leave out signs giving away details about their alarms, so that he has a chance to read up in advance. The particular kind to be found in this house is easily hacked if one has the right equipment, and Sebastian does. He knows that he’ll only have thirty seconds to disable it once he’s gotten the door open, so he takes a minute just outside to kneel down on the porch and get his gear out of the backpack. Just as he’s about to rise, handheld device in hand, the light comes on inside.

Sebastian freezes in place. Had he been so wrong? Is someone home already, despite the normal appearance of the timed lights that evening? Whatever the reason, he can’t know for sure that he’s been spotted. Perhaps, if he waits things out here, out of sight, he’ll be able to go back the way he came and return another night. So, he remains crouched, and waits. Three breaths later, he hears something that makes the hairs on his neck stand on end; the bark of a dog. That’s the precise moment it dawns on him just how fucked he is. Sadly, he has no time to device another plan before the door springs open.

What follows takes Sebastian by surprise. Something lunges at him from directly inside the door. He thinks that it’s a dog at first, the same one he heard barking, but as he lands with the beast on top of him, he realises that it isn’t. It’s not an animal at all - just a man who’s been fashioned to look like one. There’s a muzzle mask of some sort, and paw mittens. With a start, he realises that the mittens aren’t by far as harmless as normal mittens; there’re knives sticking out of them, where there ought to be claws. In the half-second that Sebastian hesitated, because seriously, what the fuck is that, the man-hound on top of him has gotten so far as to press those razor-sharp knife claws to his throat, obviously intent on cutting him open. 

Once he’s caught up with himself, Sebastian reaches for his own knife, safely tucked away in his boot. What follows after is all reflex and instinct. He rolls them over, clearly to the surprise of the animal, and drives the blade up between its ribs. It doesn’t even scream as it keeps rolling, falling wounded on its side; it just whimpers, a high, keen noise that raises the hair at the back of Sebastian’s neck once more. Like a true animal, he thinks, feeling sick to his very stomach. Whoever did what they did to him, they’d done a good job, that was for sure. 

Sebastian has never run from a place before, but as he reaches out to pull his knife free, he’s certain that he’s not going to be able to stay here. Whatever the fuck this pet thing is, there might be more of them around - not to even mention the man who trained them. Even though he’s curious, staying to investigate this goes against his gut, and Sebastian makes a point to never go against his gut. Unfortunately, he was a bit slow in listening to it, this time. Just as he’s about to gather up the rest of his things and go, he spots shoes walking slowly towards him, and hears a man whistle. Whistle as if after a dog. Sebastian freezes with something like sick fascination as he watches the situation unfold. Next to him, the pet on the ground kicks meekly, trying to stand up even as it’s bleeding out. When the dog doesn’t make it up, the whistling grows more insistent, and despite renewed struggles, the dog still doesn’t manage to rise. The owner of the shoes walks up to it and kicks it right on the knife wound. It’s a vicious kick, meant to injure, and the man-dog rolls over, landing on its other side with a pitiful whine. 

Sebastian, for the first time, looks up to face the owner of the house. He barely has the time to register dark eyes and a soft smirk before something comes down, hard, on his head, and he loses consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sebastian wakes up, the first thing he realises is that something is wrong. His head hurts, his mouth is dry and his vision is a little fuzzy, but that’s all to be expected. No, it’s something else, something… Worse. He can’t seem to bite down, can’t seem to close his mouth properly, and he’s pretty sure he’s been drooling. There’s something in his mouth, something big, something stuck.

With panic rising in his chest, he raises his hand to remove it, to grip whatever the fuck it is and throw it away, only to realise that he can’t. Something holds his hands, keeping them in fists. Looking down, he sees a big, black paw attached to his wrist. With another start of panic, he tries to shake it off, but nothing happens. It’s as though the fabric was actually a part of him. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

Some wild thrashing follows before he realises that it’s no use. Whatever it is won’t drop off of him just because he wishes that it would, and freaking out will do him no good. As the hopelessness of his situation is made apparent to him, he can almost smell the jungle, smell the breath of Kali’s Kitten. It helps him calm down considerably. So long as he keeps breathing, so long as he looks at this logically, he’ll get out of the situation unharmed. 

Looking at things logically, he adjusts his position to get as comfortable as he can on the cold, bare floor, realising with a start that he’s naked. No; not completely naked. There’s a bar of some sort in between his knees, making it impossible for him to rise. Shutting his eyes to the reality of it is all he can do to not panic again. It’s all fine, he tells himself; he can hold his own, if it comes down to that. Being naked isn’t the worst about all of this. He doesn’t need clothes to defend himself, and not to be on his feet, either. Not really. What he needs, though, is hands. He raises the paw up to eye level, to look over it critically. It’s soft, heavily padded, and of course he hasn’t been given any razor claws. The implications of this, of him wearing paws just like the thing he slew, is something that threatens to make him sick. He does his best to not linger on the thought. Rather, he reminds himself once more to look on things logically, and does so. 

The paw is secured around his wrist with velcro, he realises. It’s been fit very tightly and his hand is sweating, but it can be removed - it can even be removed with ease. He raises his wrist, intending to pull off the mitten with his mouth, but it doesn’t reach it. Something’s in the way… Something. He feels dread rise up through his gut as he realises he must be wearing the muzzle, too. That that must be what’s in his mouth. A gag muzzle, paws, no clothes, and no way to escape. He really is beyond fucked, he thinks.

That’s when the door opens behind him, and he spins around, turning to see the man who did this to him, who thinks he’ll get away with this. Sebastian’s first impulse is to lunge at him, but there’s something holding him back, something about the look the man has in his eyes. It doesn’t matter that Sebastian is about twice as big as that little man is, because there’s something unmistakable about him. He’s a killer. He’s a hunter, just like Sebastian; someone that kills for sport and for trophy. Given half a chance, he’ll take Sebastian and turn him into a living room floor piece just for fun. Better to be patient, here. Better to try and be smart than to give him an excuse. Even so, Sebastian glares - something that gets a soft tutting in response, as though he were a misbehaving child. 

“Don’t look at me like that, pet,” the man says, and when he speaks, his voice is soft. Sebastian really hadn’t expected that from him, not with eyes as cold and hard as the Arctic Ocean… But he supposes everyone’s full of surprises. Hopefully, this man isn’t worse than he seems. Sebastian isn’t sure he’s ever met anyone worse than this man seems. He goes on, “I know it’s a rather unfortunate situation, but you killed Addy… and I do need a big, strong mutt by my side.”

Sebastian tries to swallow, but it’s difficult with the big ball of plastic in his mouth. He’s sure that he’s drooling again, down under the mask he’s wearing, sure that it looks as though what the man suggests is making him excited. It isn’t. Not at all. He feels like being sick again when the man steps further into the room, giving Sebastian a cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I don’t think we’ve formally met,” the man goes on, looking at Sebastian as though he can read all of his secrets, right there, right off of his skin. “You can call me Sir, and I’ll call you… Oh, why not Basher, hm? Sebastian seems an awfully long name for a pet.”

So the man knows his name, then. He isn’t the only one who can play that game, though. Sebastian has done his research, knows that the man registered as the owner of the property they’re on is Jim Moriarty. If he’d been able to speak, he would’ve said as much, but now, there isn’t anything he can do but glare. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be very effective.

“Here’s how it’s going to be, Basher,” Jim goes on, all the way up by Sebastian’s side by now. “So long as you’re good to me and do as I say, I’ll be sure to keep you warm and fed.” The man pauses, taking a moment to pull a hand through Sebastian’s hair. He feels something rising in his chest in response; the implied threat just as real as what comes after, when Jim grabs a fistful and pulls. When he speaks, he bends down to deliver the next part of his speech in a stage whisper; “And if you don’t… You’ll get _nothing_ but _pain_. I’m sure you see the situation you’re in, darling. So will you play nice, or do I have to put you down?”

Even if the words hadn’t been plenty to make this clear, Sebastian would’ve been forced to agree that, yeah, he knows what’s coming. This is what he has to do to survive, so he nods, just once, just shortly. Jim’s clipping a leash onto the mask Sebastian’s been forced into, and he isn’t going to die. Deep down inside, Sebastian knows that he’ll do almost anything to stay alive, and he’s been given a clear task here. So long as he plays along, he isn’t going to die. Letting that thought turn into steel in his belly, Sebastian’s able to crawl along at Jim’s feet, leaving the cellar room for a warm, bright hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

Basher doesn’t know how long he’s been in the house by now. He doesn’t know much at all, not beyond the warmth of the fire and the comfort of being able to see Master’s feet. Being able to touch Master’s feet, even, if he reaches out and lays a paw gently on top of one. Master is only wearing socks, and Basher takes care not to scratch him. He only wants to feel him there, and once he does, he closes his eyes once more. Content.

There’s meat in his belly tonight, good meat, cooked meat. The same meat that Master had, except Master had potatoes and greens with his meat, too, and Basher ate his off the floor. It was a clean floor, though, the kitchen floor, not the garden floor. He doesn’t like it all that much when he has to eat off the garden floor, but he does it all the same. As long as he’s fed, he can’t mind too badly. When there’s no meat at all in his belly, those times are the worst. It’s been long since Basher had an empty belly, though. Even longer than it’s been since he slept in the kennels.

Basher can barely remember the last time he was truly punished. It must have been when he last tried to escape, when Master had been forced to whip him, after he’d been fetched back. He still has scars across his sides from the whip, but it was Master’s cold disappointment that was the worst part of the punishment. For several days, he’d treated Basher as though he were disposable. More than anything, that’s why Basher decided to stay. He was truly growing to like Master, and now, he does.

Master likes Basher too, he knows, because Master always takes Basher with him to bed at night, to use him for warmth and for pleasure. It’s a nice job, pleasing Master, and getting to fall asleep curled up around him after. Basher doesn’t even have to wear his claws to bed, so he never has to worry that he’ll accidentally hurt Master as they sleep. His biggest concern is drool on the pillow case and he’s grateful.

There’s so much that Basher is grateful for. The meat and the bed are only a small part of it, very small compared to the greatest gift of all that Master has given him. He never has to worry, now. Master always does all the worrying for him, so that he doesn’t need to think about war and battle and money and bills. Life is so simple with Master taking care of him, telling him what to eat and when, telling him who to attack and who to be good to. It’s Basher’s favourite time of all, when he gets to attack, and feel his strong body doing some good for Master. When he gets to sink his teeth and his claws into a body, and when Master pets him and strokes him afterwards. He adores it when Master strokes him. 

Half-dozing as he is on the rug in the living room, one of Basher’s legs kicks as he dreams of it, of taking the leap, of feeling warm blood seep out of someone’s warm belly as he does what his Master wishes. It’s the sweetest dream that Basher has ever had, in this sweet life that’s the best that Basher has ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again - unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoyed it regardless! ^^


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